The Christmas Cardigan
by writergal85
Summary: A Turnadette fic that's firmly in AU territory. Involves an OC that long-time members of the Tumblr fandom may be familiar with. Previously published on my blog, now moved here.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is fanfic is firmly in AU territory and involves a made-up character, familiar to the Tumblr fandom, called Aunt Lou. In this fic, Violet doesn't exist (Sorry Vi! I really love you, I just wrote this before you appeared in Fred's life)**

Dr. Patrick Turner was well-known around Poplar for three things: his passion for improving public health, his dedication to his family and his absolutely horrid taste in clothing.

One couldn't blame him for the last one, really. When you're intent on saving the whole East End from the scourge of poverty and disease, making sure your socks match isn't much of a priority. At least since he'd remarried, his professional appearance had improved somewhat; his ties usually matched his shirts now, and there were never any buttons missing from his lab coat. But the odd-colored jumper or lumpy cardigan still made an appearance in his wardrobe every now and then.

"Marianne's mother was fond of knitting. She always gave me a jumper at Christmas," he said, when his wife, Shelagh, asked about them. He drew an olive knit with mustard-yellow trim on the neck and sleeves over his head. "I will admit it's a bit odd-looking, but it's warm and doesn't itch, which is all you can ask for in a jumper, really. I can't get rid of all of them, Shelagh."

She sighed but said nothing more. If Patrick wanted to honor the memory of his first wife and her late mother through knitting, she wasn't going to argue, though privately she often thought that the famously artistic Marianne would have told him to chuck the whole lot.

Yes, it could be said that Patrick Turner was rather fond of his jumpers and cardigans, the uglier the better.

But Christmas Day 1963, he met his match.

The four Turners were ensconced in the sitting room, sipping hot drinks and listening to Bing Crosby croon "Silent Night" on the record player. Christmas lunch had been eaten, most of the wrapping paper from that morning's presents had been cleared away, and now Tim sat with Angela on the floor, helping her set up her new dollhouse. Their parents watched from the sofa, Patrick at one end, Shelagh curled up at the other with her toes tucked under her husband's thigh to keep them warm.

"Where's this bed go Angela?"

She scoffed. "In the bedroom, silly."

Tim slid the miniature bed into a space on the top floor of the house, but Angela tugged on his sleeve to stop him. "Not there. That's the baby's room. It goes here." She pointed to slightly larger space on the other side of the house and Tim moved the bed accordingly.

"All right. Where's my room?"

She pointed to a tiny space under the stairs and giggled.

"Thanks, Ange."

The doorbell rang. Shelagh stirred from her position on the couch, slid her feet back into her house slippers and stretched.

"That'll be Aunt Lou and Fred. I'll just put the kettle on and get the Christmas cake. Tim, could you get the door please?"

"Yay Auntie Lou's here!" Angela squealed, jumping up and following her brother.

"Inside voice, please Angela," Patrick called after her. He stubbed out his cigarette in the corner ashtray and bent to push the jumble of toys and presents on the floor into a tidier pile.

"Hello, my dears," Aunt Lou sang out as soon as Tim opened the door. "Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas Auntie Lou!" Angela exclaimed, bouncing on her tiptoes.

"Angela." Aunt Lou swept aside her fur coat and bent down so she was eye-level with the four-year-old. "Have you been a good girl this year?"

She nodded solemnly.

"Really?" Aunt Lou said, narrowing her heavily made-up eyes. "She's not lying, is she, Tim?"

"Well –"

"Timmy!" Angela whined. "I've been good, I promise, Aunt Lou."

The older woman threw her head back and cackled. "I believe you. And that's good, because I come bearing gifts." She stepped aside to reveal Nonnatus' handyman and her current beau, Fred Buckle, on the step below her, struggling to balance several boxes as well as Lou's enormous crocodile-skin handbag.

"Hullo, Turners," Fred bellowed. "Happy Christmas!"

Patrick appeared in the doorway. "Happy Christmas, Fred, Lou. Come in out of the cold, you two. Shelagh's just putting the kettle on."

Tim gave Fred a hand with the boxes and bags, while Patrick ushered Angela and Lou into the house. The entryway was narrow, and soon, everyone was tangled in a muddle of hugs and holiday wishes.

"It's good to see you, Lou," Patrick said as he helped her out of her coat. "How are you?"

"Oh, lovely most days. Though sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder when I got so old!" She flashed him a smile eerily like Shelagh's, but with a twist of mischief. "And how about you, Patrick? Still keeping my favorite niece happy?"

"Yes, he is," Shelagh stepped through the fray to hug her aunt. "Happy Christmas. I'm so glad you both could make it. The drive from Dolly's wasn't too bad, I hope?"

"Nah, we left before the snow hit," Fred said. "But it'll be nippy tonight."

"Well, come in the sitting room; it's warm there," Shelagh said. "Would you like cake, or are you still recovering from Christmas lunch?"

"I tell ya, Dolly really pushed the boat out this year," Fred said, patting his ample stomach. "But I think I can manage a slice or two."

He and Aunt Lou settled on the sofa, while Tim and Angela resumed their places on the floor by the Christmas tree.

"Tea or hot toddy?" Patrick called from the kitchen.

"Oh, a hot toddy would be marvelous, thank you, Patrick," Aunt Lou trilled, rising from the sofa. "I'll help you. There's a certain trick to making them just right. Fred?"

"Oh, just tea for me, thanks." He leaned forward to inspect Angela's dollhouse. "Is that a present from Santa, Angie? Why is there a bed under the staircase?"

"That's my room," Tim replied dryly.

"She's kicking you out already? I tell ya, Angie, you'll miss him when he goes off to university in a few years." He shook his head. "They grow up before you know it."

"How are Dolly and the children?" Shelagh asked as she passed him the cake.

"Thank you, Shelagh. Dolly's well – got another one on the way, ya know, and Antony, now, he's in school. Quite the little bruiser, that one. Think he's gonna play football, the way he tears around the house. Drives Dolly mad." He chuckled. "And I can't believe how big little Sammie's gettin'. I remember when I could fit her head in the palm of my hand. She took to Louisa right away."

"It's my _je ne sais crois_ ," Aunt Lou said, sailing back into the room with the tea tray, Patrick at her heels. "Or my fur coat. Makes all little girls think I'm either glamorous, terrifying or terrifyingly glamorous." She and Patrick handed the drinks round, then helped themselves to cake.

"Please keep your serviette spread over your dress, Angela, or you'll have to finish your cake at the table." Shelagh took a sip of her tea and coughed. She looked at her husband. "Did you put something in this?"

Patrick frowned and shook his head. Across the room, Aunt Lou winked.

Shelagh set down her teacup. "How was New York? We got your postcard."

"Is the Empire State Building really the tallest in the world?" Tim asked. "And did you really climb to the top?"

Aunt Lou chuckled. "Well, I took an elevator most of the way. And you know, I've never had a problem with heights before. I climbed Ben Nevis when I was not much older than you, Tim. I've trekked across the Alps and the Grand Canyon, and I've flown in airplanes a couple times too. But when I got to the top of that building and I looked across New York City, I felt like I was on top of the world." She sighed. "And then I looked down and fainted dead away."

Everyone laughed. "Luckily, I was rescued by a pair of very friendly young American men, who carried me back down a couple floors and fetched me a cup of tea," Lou continued. "Very dashing, those Americans."

"Not as dashing as the Cockneys, though, eh?" Fred said.

Aunt Lou sipped her drink and smirked. "No, I suppose not. Tell me, Tim, do you have a girlfriend yet?"

Tim choked on his cake. "Uh – eh, no."

"But there's a girl you like?"

The tips of Tim's ears turned red. "No."

"Don't tease him, Lou," Fred said.

"I'm not teasing, merely asking questions, like any concerned great-aunt would," she said. "Don't worry, Tim. When you do decide you want a girlfriend, I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding one. Not if you've inherited your father's charm."

Out of the corner of her eye, Shelagh could see Patrick's ears redden, and she giggled – but quietly. Aunt Lou loved to pry and ask questions that often had revealing, embarrassing answers. If she drew attention to herself, she might be next.

Luckily, Angela saved them all. "Auntie Lou, can we open the presents now?"

"Angela!"

"Oh, don't scold her Shelagh, the child has her priorities straight." She threw back the rest of her hot toddy and delicately patted her lips with a serviette. "Yes, I'd say it was time for presents."

Angela squirmed with excitement watching her aunt sort through the boxes and bags deposited under the tree. She adored Christmas; it was her favorite holiday, next to Hallowe'en, which was also her birthday.

Shelagh, gathering Angela and Tim's empty cake plates, eyed the colorfully wrapped boxes with a little more trepidation. Her aunt was very generous with her wealth, and all of her gifts came with the best of intentions, but they usually fell short of the mark.

Last Christmas, she'd gotten Shelagh a geometric patterned skirt that ended _well_ above her knee, insisting it was all the rage. Patrick had appreciated it (of course) but she hadn't felt comfortable wearing it and gave it to one of the younger nurses.

Then there was the kitten Aunt Lou had given Angela for her 3rd birthday, a sweet handful of orange fur that mewed constantly. Angela played with Kitty, as she'd named it, for a full hour before she started sneezing. By the end of the day, her little freckled nose had swelled into a red ball and Patrick declared that Kitty had to go.

Her and Patrick's anniversary gift had been the most embarrassing so far: a rather obscene statue of what appeared to be a naked man and woman, locked in an embrace. Aunt Lou had sent it from Hawaii, where she was vacationing at the time, with a note explaining it was "love totem" the natives used to "bless" a marriage. Thankfully, Tim and Angela had been out of the house when they'd unwrapped it. Shelagh and Patrick agreed their marriage was blessed enough and put it in the attic.

Now, as Aunt Lou gave boxes to Tim and Angela, Shelagh just prayed that whatever was inside wasn't alive or wildly inappropriate.

"Well, open them!" Lou said, clapping her hands together with glee.

Angela tore off the wrapping paper and gasped. "A Barbie! Oh and Mummy look at her dresses!"

"What do you say, Angela?"

"Thank you, Auntie Lou." She rose, clutching the doll to her chest, and kissed her great-aunt on the cheek.

"Yeah, thanks Aunt Lou, these are cool." Tim held up a large stack of records – The Beach Boys, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Louis.

"Yes, thank you for those, especially," Patrick grumbled.

"Don't fancy rock n' roll, Patrick?" Aunt Lou teased. "Perhaps you'll like this better. And this is yours, Shelagh."

"I told you not to get me anything –"

"Nonsense. What's the point of having a fortune left to you by two ex-husbands if you can't spend it on the people you really love?"

Shelagh opened the box carefully, just in case it was another "love totem." Her breath caught when she saw what was inside: a sterling silver vanity set with a brush, a comb and a small compact mirror.

"Oh, Aunt Lou. They're beautiful." She ran her fingertips lightly over the brush's mother-of-pearl handle and felt tears prick her eyes. "They look almost like—"

"Like Janet's, I know." She smiled, her blue eyes glistening. "It took me forever to find it. It's a pity your father didn't keep the first set, but I thought this was almost –"

"It's exactly as I remember it." Shelagh stood and embraced her aunt in a tight hug. "Thank you."

Angela's brow puckered in confusion. "Who's Janet?"

"Mum's mum," Tim answered.

Shelagh knelt by her daughter and showed her the set. "When I was very little, I used to watch my mother brush her hair out every night." She lifted the brush out of its silk cubby and ran it lightly over Angela's blonde curls. "And then she'd brush my hair."

"Janet was always incredibly vain about her hair," Aunt Lou said. "100 strokes every night when she was 17." Her smile turned mischievous again. "Once I dipped the ends in ink while she was asleep. Her curls were purple for week. And so was my backside, after your grandfather found out."

Shelagh chuckled along with her aunt, their laughter almost matching in tone and pitch. Once she'd recovered, she noticed Patrick in his corner armchair, looking down at his open present with barely-masked horror.

"What's in your box, Patrick?"

"What? Oh, um, a cardigan. Thanks, Lou," he said, with a weak smile. "Happy Christmas."

"Well, let us see," Shelagh said.

His smile tensed. "All right." He slowly lifted the cardigan out of the box and let it unfold onto his lap.

The fabric was an oatmeal knit; not the best color on Patrick, but Shelagh had seen worse. But the texture — what on earth? She leaned closer to finger one of the sleeves. It was soft, but stiff and shiny, too, almost like one of Aunt Lou's fur coats. "Oh, it's...lovely."

"Try it on," Lou said. "I want to make sure it fits."

Patrick looked to Shelagh, his eyes wide in a silent plea for help. Oh, poor Patrick. She'd never seen him look this horrified over a piece of clothing before. But saying no to Aunt Lou on anything was nearly impossible. She bit back a grin and pushed the cardigan into his hands.

Reluctantly, he stood, took off the dark blue jumper he wore and shrugged the cardigan on over his dress shirt.

"I was at a bit of a loss as to what to get you, but Shelagh said you always needed new jumpers. And the saleslady at Bloomingdale's said this was the latest thing in men's fashion. It's a wool and mohair blend – warm, but with a touch of sophistication." She brushed a stray bit of thread off Patrick's shoulders and stood back to examine her work. "Oh, it looks perfect on you, just like the mannequin. Makes him look manly, don't you think, Shelagh?"

More like hairy and miserable, Shelagh thought. The nap of wool wasn't quite right and it stuck up in odd places where Patrick had fiddled with the buttons or tugged at his collar. The worried pout on his face reminded her of the time she'd found Angela trying to dress the neighbor's ancient terrier in doll clothes for a garden party. She pursed her lips against another fit of laughter.

"Mm-hmm," she said. "Very manly."

Tim picked the tag out of the box. "Drummond Sweaters. The Shaggy Man?" He opened his mouth to laugh, but Shelagh silenced him with one sharp look – _not in front of Aunt Lou._

Angela stroked one of her father's furred arms. "You feel like Baby Bear, Daddy. See?" She held up a worn teddy bear that had one eye missing. Patrick ran a finger over the bear's head. The texture was disappointingly similar.

"Well, you're right," he said, keeping his voice light. "Does that makes you Goldilocks then?"

Her eyes brightened and she grinned. "No. Mummy is Goldilocks."

Patrick smiled at his wife across the room, her blonde hair catching the light of the Christmas tree. She blushed. "So she is," he said.

"Now then," Aunt Lou boomed, breaking the spell. "Is there a present under that tree for me?"


	2. Chapter 2

Once all the presents had been exchanged, Aunt Lou and Fred stayed for another round of drinks, followed by a light dinner and some reminiscing. Shelagh shared photos from the year – Tim in his first proper set of cricket whites, Angela in the Easter Pageant, the whole family during a trip to the seaside – while Lou regaled the group with more stories of her travels to New York, Budapest, Guam, and so many other exotic locales Tim had to pull out the atlas to keep up.

Through the whole afternoon and evening, Patrick kept the cardigan on, scratching and squirming as discreetly as he could. Once or twice he forgot he was wearing it until his fingers brushed the furry knit, and then he recoiled in brief horror. Something about the glint Aunt Lou's kohl-rimmed eyes whenever she looked at him made him think she'd done this to him on purpose, but he didn't want to offend her by taking it off. Aunt Lou had practically raised Shelagh after her mother died, but their relationship had fractured when Lou ran off suddenly to get married (the first time). They'd only just reconciled a few years ago after Shelagh wrote to her about her decision to leave the order and get married herself. Two months after Angela's adoption, Aunt Lou arrived in Poplar to celebrate Christmas and "spoil her great-niece and nephew rotten."

She'd been making Patrick uncomfortable ever since. With her blonde hair (from a bottle now, of course), round blue eyes and petite figure, she looked uncannily like his sweet Shelagh, aged 20 years. But there was very little that was sweet about Aunt Lou. Their first dinner out together had been like a police interrogation – if policemen drank G&T's, smoked French cigarettes and made off-color jokes about their ex-husband's "performance" issues. And when she smiled at him – like she knew all of his secrets already – he couldn't tell if she was flirting with him or was about to insult him.

"She likes you," Shelagh had insisted after that initial dinner.

"Yes," Patrick said. "Like a cat likes a mouse."

The best he could do, he learned, was to stay out of Lou's way, or if that wasn't possible, be nice and hope she took pity on him.

But she wasn't taking any pity tonight, Patrick thought as he watched the clock and tried to surreptitiously scratch the back of his neck where that awful cardigan rubbed against it. She had to leave soon; Timothy was having trouble hiding his yawns, and Angela had fallen asleep under the Christmas tree hours ago.

Finally, as Aunt Lou wrapped up a story about the Christmas she'd spent sailing the coast of New Zealand with a pair of practicing Buddhists, Fred tapped her on the shoulder and said it was probably time to go.

"Sorry, love, but I've got to be up early tomorrow. Make sure the snow and ice is clear for the Sisters and that the boiler's working and everything."

The corners of her mouth drooped slightly. "Oh. Till tomorrow then?" she said, looking hopefully toward Shelagh. "My train doesn't leave until 4 p.m."

"Of course," Shelagh said. "Come by for lunch. Patrick's on call at the maternity home, so it will just be me and the children, but we'd love to have you."

"Yes, please – " Timothy yawned widely. "Please come, Aunt Lou. You have to finish the story about your trip to New Zealand."

Lou laughed. "Well, that's settled then. Tomorrow it is." She hugged him goodbye, and then kissed the slumbering Angela. "Goodbye, my angels."

In the entryway, Patrick once again helped her with her coat while Fred warmed the van and loaded up their things. "You're sure you can't skive off tomorrow and join us for drinks, Patrick?"

"Well — I — I mean -"

"No, I thought not." She shrugged. "Just as well. It will give Shelagh a chance to tell me the truth about you. The man underneath the cardigan."

Patrick flushed to his hairline.

"Oh, Aunt Lou," Shelagh said, rolling her eyes.

Lou laughed loud again, her trademark witchy cackle, as she swept out the door. "Happy Christmas, darlings!"

As soon as he heard the van pull away, Patrick tore the cardigan off, straight over his head without unbuttoning it. "Bloody hell!"

"Patrick!"

"I'm sorry, Shelagh. It's just this cardigan. I feel like I'm covered in fur." He dropped it in the armchair with a grimace of disgust. "Look at it. How many teddy bears were sacrificed to make this?"

Tim snorted. "It is pretty awful, Mum."

She leveled him with one stern look. "Timothy. Bed. Now."

"All right," he groaned and shuffled upstairs.

Shelagh sighed, looked at the crumpled cardigan, shook her head and smiled at Patrick. "Put Angela to bed, will you? I just want to tidy up a bit down here."

He gently scooped up his sleeping daughter. She burrowed her face into his shoulder but didn't wake as he carried her upstairs. As he laid her in her bed and tucked the blankets around her, he recalled a conversation between Lou and Shelagh he'd overheard while they were clearing the dinner table.

"She looks just like you, you know."

"Thank you for saying that," Shelagh said, an edge of pain in her voice.

"I mean it. Oh, I know it's not really possible, but she does. She's got the same look you always had as a child. Soft, pretty, but stubborn as a mule." She chuckled. "It's the curse of the Mannion women — and the men who love them."

Oh, Patrick knew Shelagh could be stubborn, steely even, especially when she wanted something. But she was soft, too. And if this life with her was a curse, he'd gladly spend it tormented.

He shut off the lights in Angela's room and checked on Tim – fast asleep already – before padding down the hall to his and Shelagh's. She was already there in her nightdress. She held the furry cardigan up to the light and examined it.

"Trying to decide the best way to destroy it?"

"I'm trying to figure out how to wash it," she said testily. "I'm worried the mangle might ruin it."

"Good."

"Patrick, it was a gift. You need a new cardigan or two, and it's not that terrible." She pulled the offensive item on over her nightdress. "Well, it's warm." Her shoulders twitched. "A bit itchy, but not too bad." She pushed the drooping sleeves up over her hands and frowned. "What's it made out of again?"

"Mohair. Or wool. Woolhair, I suppose?"

She giggled. "You know Aunt Lou means well."

"I know," he said, though privately he didn't always believe it. "And she is a wonderful, brilliant, terrifying woman who loves you with the ferocity of tigress." He slipped his arms underneath the cardigan and wrapped them around her waist. "I just don't fancy looking like one of Angela's stuffed toys."

She chuckled again, her laugh as light as silver bells, her eyes as warm as Christmas. "Not Papa Bear then?"

"No." He lifted one hand from her waist and twined his fingers around a lock of her hair. "I wouldn't protest at all if I found Goldilocks in my bed."

"Good," she said, stretching up to kiss him.

The cardigan fell to the floor, forgotten.


End file.
